


Coldly Comforting

by MajorTrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit of angst, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Music as a Plot Device, Pining, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Tumblr Prompt, i love that that is a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23885488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: From the prompt: Jaskier writes a heartbreakingly despairing love song, everyone but Geralt catches on that it's about him (until he does).EDIT: Now with art! By the extraordinarily talented@hobbart-artwho gifted it to me for my Secret Santa and I am both extremely flattered and pleased. Thank-you!!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 465





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt! I think I've said this before but I am a slut for musical prompts. The song in here is a modified version of one of mine called Buried in Silk. Should be up on bandcamp soon! Thank-you for all your lovely kudos and comments <3

It had been a bitterly cold winter. Bitter winds had blown through the mountains. Bitter cold had seeped into every stone at Kaer Morhen. Bitter thoughts had settled in his head. And bitter loss wrapped around his heart. But with the Spring thaw, Geralt was determined to leave all that bitterness behind. Even if it meant forgetting bright blue eyes and lightening quick smiles. Even if it meant never again feeling the warmth of hands on his strained and bruised shoulders. Even if it meant resigning himself to walking The Path alone. As he was meant to, he reminded himself. Alone. Bitterly. 

They hadn’t parted on good terms. 

Jaskier had been asking, over the last month before the snows had really started to stick to the branches of the trees overhead, about coming with him. Wintering in the crumbling halls of the Witcher stronghold, he’d said, would give him fodder for an epic song cycle. He could meet the others of the Wolf School and learn more about the ways of The Path. Geralt had brushed him off at every turn, refusing to commit to an answer. And Jaskier had seemed content to wait him out, even as the snow became a more treacherous barrier to their journey. 

Finally, in a village three days’ journey from the base of the mountain leading to Kaer Morhen, a letter had found its way into the bard’s hands. An invitation. A summoning. To play at the court of the King of Temeria and spend the long, deep winter there. For Geralt, it was a relief. Now he wouldn’t have to say anything - Jaskier would obviously take the post and be glad of it. 

Instead, he dismissed it almost immediately. “No need for stuffy court etiquette and endless recital of poetry to simpering maidens on the mountain!” 

Geralt had turned to him, confused and not a little wary. “I thought you liked court etiquette and simpering maidens?” he’d asked, all whilst carefully packing his things into two sturdy canvas bags. There was another inn at the base of the mountain, but he didn’t want to stay there if he could help it. 

“Well, yes, but Kaer Morhen will be so much more exciting! There’ll be a whole keep of Witchers smelling like heroics and heartbreak!”

“Or onion.” He paused. “You’re not going.”

Jaskier dropped his arms from where he’d spread them out in his theatrics. “I - I’m what?”

“You’re not coming with me.” He slung his packs over his shoulder and headed down the hall and out the door of the inn they’d been staying at. He could hear Jaskier sputtering behind him as he attempted to make sense of what he’d just said. He made it into the stables and started tying his possessions to Roach’s saddle before the bard became coherent again.

Finally he settled on, “That’s not what we agreed to.” He studiously tuned out the bard’s ranting after that, uninterested in hearing him try to persuade and cajole his way into the trip. Once Jaskier had yelled himself out, and they were coincidentally at the crossroads on the edge of the village, Geralt turned and laid a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, who suddenly shut up. “Go to your court intrigues, Jaskier. You’re better suited to them than anything I can offer. You’d never keep up anyway.” And he’d turned away, unwilling to meet the other’s eye. He hadn’t been able to shut out the sharp intake of breath or the sharp smell of anger and hurt, but Jaskier hadn’t followed him - hadn’t even yelled out a parting shot - and Geralt had spent the rest of the journey in cold, quiet silence. 

And now he was coming down the mountain in the same way. He drove these thoughts from his mind as he settled in for the night, staring into the banked embers of the campfire and listening to the sound of the wind brushing its way through the trees. He walked The Path alone. 

**

For a month he travelled deeper into the heart of civilization, following the coin. Now that spring had started to thaw out the edges of the land, creatures were beginning to stir. Monsters prowled out of their winter dens in search of food, and they were drawn to the bustling bits of life in the scattered villages and towns. So he had no trouble earning his way from place to place, and was even welcomed into a few, subjected to the all too familiar strains of that blasted song Jaskier had created to sing his praises.

He wished to gods someone would forget it. Or write something better. But he couldn’t deny that it made people hopeful when they saw him, instead of instantly afraid or disgusted. 

So it was he was sat in some tavern, a few days’ travel from Novigrad, when the cheery evening crowd clamoured for songs from the visiting minstrel. She was a stout, red-haired woman, with flashing brown eyes who carried the huge twelve stringed guitar with ease. It was obvious she was well trained, and she’d already entertained the crowd with several good drinking songs and at least two ballads Geralt recognized from Jaskier’s repertoire. 

“Come on, Leigha! Sing us the new one! The sad song!” someone from the front of the crowd called to her, and several voices raised in agreement. 

“Oh, you’re sure are you? Want to cry a bit into your ale?” she asked, grinning and strumming the guitar slowly. When the crowd yelled out again, she laughed and started playing with more purpose. 

The music took on a more mournful tone, and she began to sing. 

“It’s not like I care,

She said, with a flick of her eye,

It’s not like I care what happens next.

There’s a sharp knife

And it pricks like a thorn.

Keep up! 

She yells, with a flick of her wrist,

Keep up or I’ll leave you behind.

A husk of yourself,

Nothing more, nothing less.

There’s always something missing

There’s always something lost

But it’s not like I care

_Bury me in silks and wrap my hands in thistles_

_Strangle me with noise and take my voice_

_I’d rather sleep in the earth, in the cold_

_Then care anymore_

Hold me tight

I whisper with a flick of my hand

Hold me tight

Until I feel you here

Underneath my skin

There’s always something missing

There’s always something lost

But it’s not like I care

_Bury me in silks and wrap my hands in thistles_

_Strangle me with noise and take my voice_

_I’d rather sleep in the earth, in the cold_

_Then care anymore.”_

It was haunting. Despite himself, Geralt felt the words resonate with something deep inside him. Looking around the tavern, he could see the effect it had on the other patrons: the tears that ran down the cheeks of some and the cold stony looks of others. They all applauded though, and Leigha bowed before striking up something more lively to bring them out of their reverie. 

He finished his ale and set out for the next contract. 

After that he heard the song over and over. Sometimes sung well to an audience in a tavern, sometimes hummed by someone he passed, and once sung in a high, reedy voice that seemed soaked in tears. It was despairing, and tragic: whoever had written it had obviously been heartbroken by someone.

As always happened when he wasn’t paying attention, he entered some Lord’s keep to collect his coin after dispatching some monster, and came face to face with Yennefer. She was standing at the front of the receiving room, having an audience with the Lord, her voice bored, but forceful. Once she’d gotten whatever she’d wanted - she always did - she turned to see him leaning against a pillar watching her.

She smirked. “Brooding in shadows is extremely cliched,” she quipped, walking up to him and crossing her arms. She looked up at him with one delicate eyebrow lifted. “Where’s your bard?”

Geralt grunted. “Not my bard. What are you doing here?”

“Not your business,” she shrugged. There was a break in the procession of petitioners to the Lord and the small band of minstrels started playing. He watched in some consternation as Yennefer’s face lit up as the first strains of that damnable song started playing. “Oh, I do like this one though. He really outdid himself. Not that I’d say it to his face, of course, but it’s so sad and full of despair. Nothing like those ridiculous flowery ballads he usually writes.” 

Geralt’s eyebrows shot into his hairline at her words. “Jaskier wrote this?” he asked, teeth nearly catching his tongue in surprise. He must have been spurned by some love over the winter to write something so dramatic. 

“Hmmm, oh yes.” Yennefer had turned to listen to the minstrels, something almost soft flickering across her face. He was frowning at her when she looked at him again and her eyes widened. “Oh! You don’t - I see. Well. That is interesting.” 

“What? Speak plainly, Yenn.”

“Not my place to do so. Not today,” she smiled, patting his arm, and leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Goodbye, Geralt. Tell Jaskier he needs to stop moping about and grow some steel in his spine when you see him.” And she left him there, slightly confused and baffled. She obviously knew something he didn’t, and just as obviously wasn’t willing to share. 

He sighed heavily. Why were all mages such unrepentant bastards?

*

The next time he heard the song being played, he knew the voice. It floated out from amongst the trees in the early evening, just as he was thinking about making camp. The words were changed slightly, but still held that melancholic sadness and longing. 

“It’s not like I care,

He said, with a flick of his eye,

It’s not like I care what happens next.

There’s a sharp knife

And it pricks like a thorn.

Keep up! 

He yells, with a flick of his wrist,

Keep up or I’ll leave you behind…”

The voice trailed off and only the sound of the lute remained. Geralt followed it until he was standing at the edge of the firelight, staring as Jaskier hummed to himself and plucked the strings. Roach nickered behind him and it was at that sound that Jaskier looked up, shock evident on his face, his hands stilling.

“What - what are you -” he started before clearing his throat. “Uh, hello! Care to join my meager fire?”

“Hmmm,” Geralt intoned, leading Roach over to the edge of the camp and unloading his packs. He took his time, unsaddling his horse, smoothing out her coat, feeling Jaskier’s gaze on him. Finally, convinced that Roach’s coat couldn’t take anymore brushing, he turned back to the fire and carefully approached the other man, sitting down beside him with his back to the log Jaskier was perched on. He let the silence go for another minute before, “Keep playing. Please.”

Jaskier winced but dutifully took up the lute again and started on the chorus. 

“ _Bury me in silks and wrap my hands in thistles_

_Strangle me with noise and take my voice_

_I’d rather sleep in the earth, in the cold_

_Then care anymore.”_

He lapsed into silence again, though his hands kept playing. Geralt could see, from the corner of his eye, the tiny sparkle of tears. 

“I do care,” he said quietly. 

Jaskier’s hands stuttered to a stop on the strings. “I - you - what?” 

Geralt smiled. “Is my bard suddenly at a loss for words?”

“Your bard?” he definitely didn’t squeak. 

“Yes,” he said simply, reaching up to brush away the tears.


	2. ART!




End file.
